


you

by w0ndrlnd



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Breaking up and making up, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, No Beta, Non-Linear Narrative, Rated T for language, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 15:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/w0ndrlnd/pseuds/w0ndrlnd
Summary: “Atsumu-kun.” The two turn at the sound of their coach, but Atsumu immediately catches Kiyoomi’s gaze instead, and the burning feeling returns. “This is our new outside hitter, Sakusa Kiyoomi. I believe you are familiar with each other from high school?”Atsumu again shifts his gaze to Foster, nodding numbly.“Familiar,” Kiyoomi repeats--What once was is no more. Four years after the end of a fleeting secret romance, Kiyoomi and Atsumu reunite.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 133
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics for Midterm Procrastination





	you

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by ['youuu' by COIN](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCcf5l4maGg)  
> cw//language, alcohol  
> \---
> 
> I have absolutely no idea how volleyball seasons work, nor do I have any idea how scouting for teams work, so let's all just ignore the logistics and focus on the fluff!!!

Kiyoomi had tried not to get his hopes up as he walked through the training facility for the first time. He was early, but it was because he liked being punctual. Kiyoomi had never been one to be affected by nerves, and if he was, he thought he was good enough at compartmentalizing. He would succeed no matter what was thrown at him, literally or figuratively.

He approached the gym to find tall volleyball players not unlike himself running across the court and practicing serve-receives. A brief onceover of the room told him everything he needed to, quickly turning to the bench where the coach was waving him over. 

“Sakusa-kun, we’re excited to have you,” Coach Foster greeted. “Unfortunately, there was a mishap last night during practice and our usual setter won’t be here to set for you.” Something hitched at the back of Kiyoomi’s throat. “But I hope you find our sub just as good.”

Kiyoomi felt something in the bellows of his gut -- relief or disappointment, he wasn’t quite sure. 

“Thank you, coach. I’m just glad to be here.”

>>>

Kiyoomi looks up at the training facility ahead of him, several months later. This was never part of his five-year-plan; at least, not really. He had spent hours dwelling on the fact that he was finally here and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Motoya had asked him on the day Kiyoomi had made his decision. 

“No. But it just feels… right.” Kiyoomi had been saying the same thing to himself for weeks. 

It still does. Feel right, that is. Kiyoomi steadies himself as he hikes his training bag higher against his shoulder, tightening the mask against his face, before heading through the facility doors. 

Beyond the hallway, he could already hear the squeak of volleyball shoes against the waxed flooring. 

“Nice kill!” someone calls. 

A barrage of noise is heard over the din of laughter, only increasing in volume as Kiyoomi continues to walk towards the open door. His presence is not immediately known as the team before him continues to scrimmage, training shirts flashing from one side of the court to the other, eyes focusing only on the blue and white ball in the air as it volleys over the net. 

“Sakusa-kun.” 

The voice is low enough that the team shouldn’t have heard it, but it is evident that the play had stopped with the literal drop of the ball. Kiyoomi turns to the voice, eyes making contact with warm gray looming under a MSBY cap. Coach Foster waves him over and Kiyoomi follows, ignoring the burning on the side of his head. 

“Glad you could make it today,” Coach Foster greets with a nod. He pats the seat of the bench beside him; Kiyoomi eyes it warily, gripping the pack of sanitizing wipes hidden in his jacket pocket, before dropping his training bag on the seat of the bench and settling between the bag and his new coach. “We’re in the middle of a practice game. Or at least, we were? Miya, what are you doing?”

“Uh.” 

Kiyoomi raises his dark eyes, meeting the amber ones already focusing on him, ones he hadn’t seen in almost four years. 

<<<

“Kiyoomi.” 

He stilled, his breath catching in his throat. Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s ever called him by his first name the entire time he’s known him. Not even the first day they met. 

“Atsu,” Kiyoomi mumbled, afraid of the tremble of his throat.

“What do you mean you’re going to _college_?” 

Atsumu had released his hand, his arm hanging limply at his side as he paused in front of Kiyoomi, the only light coming from the dull glow of the street lamp along the empty road. It was cold that evening, even in mid-March.

Kiyoomi knew he had been prolonging this conversation, and while he hoped to hold on for a little longer, Atsumu wanted to let go. 

“It was an agreement,” Kiyoomi relented, finally raising his eyes to meet Atsumu’s. “With my parents.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I go to university, I get to play volleyball.” 

“Do you know where you’re going?” He turned to face the hedges beside him. Stray twigs poked out haphazardly, quick to catch on clothing if one walked too close, pulling them back and poking through knitted textiles and tarnishing fabrics brown and green. A hedge that could easily cared for, trimmed and manicured with care, but had gone astray with neglect. Something within Kiyoomi panged with sadness. “Kiyoomi, do you know where you’re going?”

Kiyoomi sighed. “Waseda.”

“Waseda.” Atsumu abruptly turned around, fists in his hair as he pulled and released a strangled yelp. “Were you - were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to stay in Tokyo and pretend like I didn’t exist? Pretend like -”

“No,” Kiyoomi started, raising his hands in surrender, but he quickly dropped them as Atsumu shifted to face him again. Kiyoomi averted his eyes, unable to maintain the contact when Atsumu’s were filled with hurt that he had caused. “I was going to tell you but -”

“First ‘Samu, then -” Another groan as Atsumu ran his hands across his face with frustration. “You _knew_ about MSBY. You _knew_. I told you as soon as I found out.” 

“I know.”

>>>

“Tsum-tsum.” A hard slap on the back snaps Atsumu out of his reverie. He finally shifts to glance at Bokuto beside him, who’s grinning maniacally as he usually does. “You okay?”

Atsumu clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. Sorry,” he chuckles. “Jus’ got distracted fer a sec.” He raises a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing the warmth away. Sparing another glance at the curly-haired newcomer on the bench, Bokuto hums thoughtfully.

“Have you met Sakkun?” Bokuto asks, and Atsumu is sure that his voice is loud enough to carry throughout the gym during the now-paused game. There is no way Kiyoomi hadn’t heard from where he’s sitting; he knows that he is the topic of their not-quite hushed conversation. “I think you were out on that sprained wrist during his try-out. But _man_ , he’s good! He’s as good as they say he is! Top three aces in high school, college MVP -- I can’t even be mad at falling behind him. Met him a year ago with ‘Kaashi! I’m sure I’m better than him now!” 

Bokuto’s words fall on nearly deaf ears because Atsumu can only hear Coach Foster’s footsteps slowly approaching them. 

“Atsumu-kun.” The two turn at the sound of their coach, but Atsumu immediately catches Kiyoomi’s gaze instead, and the burning feeling returns. “This is our new outside hitter, Sakusa Kiyoomi. I believe you are familiar with each other from high school?”

Atsumu again shifts his gaze to Foster, nodding numbly. 

“Familiar,” Kiyoomi repeats, looking at a point between Atsumu and Bokuto. 

“Excellent,” Coach Foster smiles with a clap of his hands. “I trust you will treat him well, Miya.” If Atsumu hadn’t been paying such close attention to any minute details Kiyoomi could give away, he almost would have missed the soft sigh escaping from Kiyoomi’s lips. “Bokuto, do you mind showing Sakusa-kun the locker rooms again?”

Bokuto grins excitedly, almost reaching for Kiyoomi’s hand as Kiyoomi visibly flinches to prepare himself for contact that never comes, because Atsumu is pulling Bokuto back by the shoulder. He immediately drops his hand when his coach and teammate share a look with one another, sparing a glance at Atsumu’s reddening cheeks.

“Uh,” he stutters. “Mysophobia. Right?”

“Right,” Kiyoomi grunts, turning to look at Bokuto, who begins to usher Kiyoomi away from the gymnasium, asking about _mysophobia - “What’s that? Is that a thing you have? Can it be fixed? How can I help?”_

“I read it in Volleyball Monthly, or something,” Atsumu mutters to Inunaki as their libero jumps at the chance to interrogate Atsumu about the uneasy look on his face and his knowledge of Sakusa Facts. 

<<<

“What’s up with that?” Kiyoomi glanced up from where he was wiping down the table in the arena’s dining hall. _Miya Atsumu. Fake blonde. Setter. Obnoxious. Worse fashion sense than probably his own_ , Motoya would later agree. “Ya got OCD or somethin’?” 

“Yes.” Kiyoomi continued wiping down the table before tossing it into a nearby bin and returning to his seat. He stuffed his hands into his sports jacket, staring at Atsumu who had the audacity to sit directly in front of him.

“Oh,” Atsumu replied. “How does that work?”

“Huh?”

“The OCD.”

Kiyoomi looked around, trying to see if Motoya was nearby but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps Motoya had not put Atsumu up to this conversation, and perhaps he was genuinely curious. But he hadn’t heard a single nice thing come out of Atsumu’s mouth since he arrived at the All-Japan training camp a few days ago, and he was wary of becoming his next target. 

“Ya gotta count things a certain number o’times b’fore ya do somethin’?” Atsumu continued. “Isn’t that how it works? Like ya gotta touch a door handle ten times and then ya open it or it feels, I dunno, twitchy?”

Kiyoomi shook his head. “I don’t feel compelled to do that, no,” he finally replied. “I don’t like germs and dirt.”

“But ya get all sweaty when ya play,” Atsumu probed. He leaned forward, as if to inspect Kiyoomi like a strange specimen, before remembering Kiyoomi’s earlier sentiment. Immediately Atsumu sat back, pulling his hands off the table and settling it onto his lap. Even hidden from view, Kiyoomi could tell Atsumu was fidgeting with his fingers. “Ya stretch and dive on tha floor an’ stuff. Ball is prob’ly pretty dirty too.”

Kiyoomi shrugged. “It’s only with certain things,” he responded, deciding that Atsumu was truly curious and did not seem to mean any mockery. “You touch the ball for only a few seconds. I shower after we play. There are things that I can control.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared curiously at Kiyoomi. If he noticed Kiyoomi feeling uncomfortable under his observant gaze, he didn’t say anything, content to watch Kiyoomi’s eyes shift across the dining hall. “Yer int’restin’ Omi-kun.” 

>>>

Practice had gone relatively well, Atsumu thought. But he wasn’t surprised when their coach called him and Kiyoomi over and asked them to stay an hour extra to get used to each others’ playing style. There were a few times he _knew_ Kiyoomi hesitated before spiking the ball down, a few times he knew his ball was set too high or too low for Kiyoomi’s liking. 

“Sorry,” Atsumu mutters for the millionth time that evening after yet another botched set. 

Kiyoomi crosses the net to grab a few spare balls, only briefly glancing at Atsumu, who has already turned and wiping the sweat away from his forehead with his shirt. 

“Stop apologizing, Miya.” 

Atsumu looks up, and it’s only then that Kiyoomi realizes how much Atsumu has changed. He’s a little taller now, a little broader. His hair is lighter, probably has enough money to pay a hair stylist to fix his hair instead of his brother under crappy bathroom lights. Kiyoomi wonders briefly what else has changed in the past four years, but Atsumu is huffing, grabbing a volleyball between his palms and squeezing. 

“We should call it a day,” Atsumu decides, walking toward the cart to toss the volleyball in. 

“We have twenty minutes left,” Kiyoomi argues. 

“Yeah, well. I’m exhausted, Omi - Sakusa.” He’s turned, but from his periphery, he sees Kiyoomi flinch, almost as violently as he did earlier with Bokuto -- as if he had come close to becoming stained by dirt. “We can do an early practice if ya really want,” he resolves, trying to stay as far away from Kiyoomi as possible. 

He had succeeded for four years. What’s a couple more?

<<<

“What’s got yer panties in a twist, ya scrub?” 

Atsumu ignored his twin, angrily throwing his bag to the ground by the bed with a loud thud. He began to furiously take off his clothes until he was in nothing but his boxer briefs, his hands clenched into fists as he stomped around the room. 

“Are ya still mad ‘bout the volleyball thing?”

“Fuck yer volleyball thing, ‘Samu!” Atsumu screeched. “Not everythin’s ‘bout ya, okay?”

Osamu scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion, an image Atsumu missed as he stormed out of their shared bedroom and into the bathroom to shower. 

He let the steam wash over him, as if the heat could erase the past two months. Thoughts and doubts swirled frantically in his mind. _Am I good enough? Will I ever be good enough?_

He was still pissed at Osamu for quitting volleyball, a decision he hadn’t even learned until he got into the team. Atsumu knew something was off when his twin ignored every conversation about their future during their last year of high school. Osamu had been suspicious about hiding his papers and advisory appointments, making excuses for months until Atsumu confronted him about leaving every time he and Suna brought up the volleyball scouts that were bound to be at Nationals that year. 

The day he found out MSBY Black Jackals wanted him as a setter, Osamu had told him he was quitting volleyball.

“Ya love it more than me, ‘Tsumu. Ev’ryone knows that.” 

“But ya love it too,” Atsumu mumbled. He had been close to crying, staring at his shoes and willing for them to take him far away from Hyogo, far away from his brother, far away from the betrayal standing in front of him. 

“But not as much as I love food,” Osamu shrugged, as if he were talking about the weather, and not the heart-wrenching decision to leave his twin to fend for himself in a shark tank full of experienced players. 

Atsumu slammed the tiles with balled up fists, his hands slipping as a sob escaped from his lips. 

_Will I ever be good enough to make someone stay?_

>>>

Atsumu is in the gymnasium before him, just like he said he would be. He’s practicing solo sets, raising the ball above his head with his fingertips as he stands up, letting the ball fall as he slowly crouches down, inching lower and lower to the ground before setting the ball while on his back. Atsumu slowly crunches up, the ball lightly _tap, tap, tapping_ against his fingers. He does this three times before Kiyoomi makes his presence known.

“Oh.”

“We should talk.” 

“Always to the point,” Atsumu mumbles as he catches the ball with nimble hands. “Talk ‘bout what?”

“Are you mad?” 

Atsumu smiles, but Kiyoomi could see his jaw tense. “No. Why would I be mad?” Kiyoomi opens his mouth, but no words come out. There were a lot of reasons he could be mad. 

He had told Atsumu he was pursuing a collegiate volleyball career instead of going pro like they had spoken about for several months. He had essentially lied to his boyfriend for months about his future plans, naively hoping that the truth wouldn’t break him, wouldn’t break _them_. A lie of omission is still a lie, after all. 

But they had never confirmed their breakup, and Atsumu had essentially ghosted him, only to be found on the fourth page of a sports tabloid about how _Up-and-coming rookie volleyball player Miya Atsumu leaves the club with a new girlfriend_. Kiyoomi could be mad too. He doesn’t know why he isn’t.

<<<

She was beautiful under the dim but colorful glow of the club lights. Her dark curly hair radiated pinks and blues as she swayed to the beat of an unfamiliar song with a heavy bass, the drink in her hand nearly empty. 

Atsumu downed his shot and made his way over to her, allowing the music to take control of his steps as he slotted in front of her with his signature smirk. She took a final sip of her drink, downing the rest with the tilt of her head, before pulling him closer by his belt loops. Her body ground against his thigh, their chests heaving in sync. 

Kissing her was different, Atsumu was aware. Holding her was different too. But maybe it was because he was drunk. 

And even when he was sober, these thoughts lingered in the back of his mind. 

Meiko fit in his life the way Atsumu always thought someone should. She was as sociable as Atsumu, just as clever and insatiable about what she wanted. If he wanted to go to the club, Meiko was eager to join. If he wanted a relaxing night in, she’d help him wind down the entire weekend away. If he wanted to try a new recipe that Osamu sent him, she’d sample every terrible trial and tell him how delicious it was.

But her wild curls were too long, constantly getting tangled in his bracelets and clogging the shower (not to mention the fact that she did not clean up after a shower, either, something that Atsumu did not realize would strike such a nerve with him). She hated cheek kisses, especially the ones he gave with a gentle tap of his lips on the single beauty mark on her chin. And there had been one instance in which she refused to shower before getting into bed after a night out, which had Atsumu so incredibly irked that he had decided to throw the dirty, club-stained sheets into the bin and purchased a new set the next day. 

“‘Tsu,” she would whine to get what she wanted, not _Atsu_. 

“‘Tsumu,” his twin called out to him. He was visiting Hyogo for the weekend, desperate to be away from Meiko for at least twenty-four hours. But even as he tries to run away from certain things, others come slamming him back into his face.

“What?” Atsumu grumbled as he pulled at his fingers. Osamu narrowed his eyes at him, and Atsumu immediately stopped. 

Osamu leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as he observed his twin, who did everything in his power to stare at the game in front of him. And even if he did, Atsumu couldn’t help but twitch whenever Kiyoomi came onto the screen. 

“Did somethin’ happen to tha two of ya last year?” 

“What?” Atsumu turned so sharply, he could have sworn he felt his neck crack at the whiplash. 

“I’ve been tryna see somethin’, an’ I think I get it now,” Osamu replied plainly. Atsumu merely huffed, sitting back into the couch and hoping it would swallow him whole. He’d rather be back home with Meiko than be subjected to Osamu’s sudden interrogation and interest in his and Kiyoomi’s friendship. 

They watched the collegiate game in silence. It was something Osamu did whenever Atsumu came over. If Waseda was playing, their game would be on, and Osamu would be adamant about eating and watching in the living room so they could analyze their plays and see who the up-and-coming players were going to be (Atsumu always knew, even then). 

But every time Kiyoomi showed up on the screen, Atsumu couldn’t help but restlessly shift on the couch until his face was no longer in view. At first, he thought it was a coincidence -- they usually watched volleyball in their spare time, and Osamu always claimed it was to keep him in the volleyball loop. But now with Osamu’s admittance in ‘tryna see somethin,’ Atsumu wondered if he gave off more than he was hoping. 

“Were ya fuckin’ on tha low?” 

“ _What_?” Atsumu screeched. 

Osamu shrugged indifferently, finally leaning back. “Dunno. Ya wouldn’t shut up for weeks after ya first met ‘im. I get ya were friends, but it was always ‘Omi-this’ and ‘Omi-that,’ so I figured ya guys were fuckin’. But then I thought, ‘nah, ‘Tsumu ain’t smart enough to keep that ta himself,’ and ‘Sakusa wouldn’t date a scrub like ‘Tsumu-’” 

“Hey!” 

“-- and then one day ya came home all pissy, and ya stop talkin’ bout him. Figured somethin’ was up, but didn’t wanna bring it up ‘cause you were still mad about me quittin’ volleyball. Then I kinda forgot until we watched that first Waseda game and ya locked yerself in tha bathroom fer twenty minutes, and I know ya weren’t takin’ a shit in there.” 

“What the hell, ‘Samu,” Atsumu groaned, rubbing his hand on his face tiredly. He sighed, and when he dropped his hands onto his lap, Osamu was staring at him expectantly. “We weren’t fuckin’. Jus’ datin’.”

>>>

“Why are you here, Omi?” Atsumu finally asks. “Not here, at seven in the morning. But _here_ , in Osaka. On this team?” He doesn’t sound bitter, just tired, like he had spent all night thinking about these questions. 

Kiyoomi looks at the volleyball being squeezed between Atsumu’s hands, still unable to respond. 

Atsumu sighs. “I’m not mad. I was just - I was hurt. I still am, sometimes, I think.” When Kiyoomi looks up, Atsumu is pursing his lips as if he remembered something he didn’t want to. “‘Samu told me he was quittin’ volleyball. You told me you weren’t goin’ pro right away. I was pissed,” he shrugs. “Talked to ‘Samu last night, and he said I was bein’ a bad sport, or whatever.” 

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says. “I am. I shouldn’t have kept something like that from you back then. I was stupid to think it would protect you.” _Us_ , he thinks. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Atsumu replies, and Kiyoomi knows he means it. “We were dumb kids,” Atsumu admits. “It was fer the better, I guess.” And then, “It was never meant to be, I guess.”

Kiyoomi swallows the dryness in his throat. “Yeah. I guess.” 

<<<

The transition into university had been seamless. Kiyoomi had spent the past three years dorming at Itachiyama. Waseda was almost like an extended stay. He was used to the loud dorms, the crappy roommates, the workload between volleyball practices. 

But he was no longer spending his weekends traveling between Tokyo and Hyogo. Instead, he sat in his dorm studying for exams, finding ease in the comfort of his own space instead of the crowded library. He even found himself nestled between fake plants at the university coffee shop, two lattes down and his head whirling with anatomical structures he struggled memorizing. 

Sometimes he thought he was lonely. He no longer had Motoya to bother him during volleyball practice or between classes. His teammates were respectable enough, though they still struggled to understand his boundaries. He chose not to get close with them. Kiyoomi often forced himself to bite back his tongue, reminding himself that he was still given a chance to do what he loved, and nothing (not even scathing words of how ignorant some of his teammates were) could stop him. 

Things shifted in his second year, when he met Shimizu Kiyoko. She was quiet, but blunt, and he appreciated her honesty and, especially, her respect for his boundaries. She never questioned it, merely accepting it as a part of who he was. 

In his third year, he met Akaashi Keji. Like Kiyoko, Keiji was a man of few words, until he had a couple of drinks in him. Still, even alcohol could not stop Keiji’s candid personality from seeping from his mouth with every truthful fact (or opinion). 

So his routine had changed, though he thought for the better. Every weekend, they were at each others’ dorms, drinking wine and eating cheese like those American millennials they saw on television. They watched volleyball and B-list horror films that still had Keiji and Kiyoomi hiding under the covers as Kiyoko threw popcorn at them with one of her rare laughs. 

“You look sad, Kiyo,” Kiyoko commented as she took a sip from her glass. They were at an izakaya after a gruelling midterm week, an entire bottle of sake down and another approaching them. The waiter dropped off the bottle and bowed his exit, Keiji immediately reaching for it and uncapping the bottle to pour. 

“Just thinking,” he mumbled tiredly. “Scouting season is soon.”

“Is there a team you’re more interested in than others?” Keiji asked. 

_Yes_. “No.” The words escaped his mouth before he could think to change his mind, and he knew he was caught in the lie as he watched Keiji and Kiyoko exchange a glance. 

“There’s a training camp at Fukurodani this weekend,” Keiji mentioned casually with a wave of a hand. “You should come. Could probably give some tips to our kouhai.” 

Kiyoomi pondered the potential weekend activity. It would be better than nursing a hangover (though he was sure it would still be on his to-do list tomorrow), and it would certainly be better than sitting in his dorm room listening to his roommate complain about his girlfriend all weekend long (which he was prone to exposure if he couldn’t find an excuse to leave). 

“I’ll be going too,” Kiyoko added. “My old high school is joining the training camp, and a few of my friends will be visiting. It’ll be fun.” 

Keiji nodded. “Bokuto-san will also be there. He’s in MSBY Black Jackals. He can probably tell you a bit about them. I’ve seen their coach at your games a few times. You can ask him questions about their team dynamic, if that’s something you’re wondering.” 

He pursed his lips, thoughtful, and maybe a little drunk. It was then that he realized how grateful he was to find comfort in Kiyoko and Keiji. They picked up on his moods and nuances as quickly as Motoya, and they often went out of their way to make Kiyoomi feel at ease. It was only natural for him to want to do the same. 

“Okay.”

>>>

Six months into officially joining the team, Kiyoomi could not decide whether it had been the best or worst decision of his life. He was lucky enough to have the Meian, Tomas, and Barnes to keep his sanity in check, but Bokuto and newly-recruited Hinata Shoyou brought a certain kind of enthusiasm that he’s only read about in fiction and has absolutely zero experience with in reality. Throw Miya Atsumu into the chaotic mix, who still seems to avoid Kiyoomi when he can but otherwise will communicate with him as much as a setter should, and they form a trio that could rival that trio from _Harry Potter_ (though Kiyoomi is convinced that none of them could be Hermoine). 

“It’s a team bondin’ experience,” Meian often argued when he was trying to rope Kiyoomi into joining an evening out. “We don’t have practice until Monday. You can afford t’let loose fer a weekend, Sakusa-kun.” 

“Cap is right! And what Cap says, goes!” Hinata bounces on his feet as the team huddles at the front entrance of the training facility. “Let’s go Omi-san!” Kiyoomi feels his lips tightening like they always do when he hears the nickname that has inevitably spread throughout the Black Jackals. “You never come out with us!”

“Please, Sakkun,” Bokuto practically begs, his eyes wide and pleading. 

“Yeah, Omi-kun,” Atsumu smiles genuinely. “Come out with us. Ya won’t regret it.” 

_That_ was new; Atsumu chiming in to convince Kiyoomi to join has never happened before. And if Kiyoomi goes, it would only be the second time he goes out with the team, with Atsumu (Kiyoomi had gone on these “team bonding experiences” a total of four times, and two of those times Atsumu had gone to visit Osamu in Hyogo, and Suna in Tokyo). 

The first time he had gone out with them, Atsumu treated Kiyoomi like he was an invisible wall. He supposed he deserved that, and was expecting the same treatment when he finally agreed to go. 

When Kiyoomi shows up at the izakaya, he thinks he’s the first one there. But as he approaches, Kiyoomi notices Atsumu standing at the front with his phone in his hand, probably scrolling through social media. He puts it away when he looks up and sees Kiyoomi walking up the block, sending him a short wave. 

“You’re early,” Kiyoomi states.

Atsumu shrugs. “I always am.” Kiyoomi thinks it’ll be awkward, but Atsumu, ever the talker, fills the space with ease. “Haven’t really spoken to ya outside’a practice. But how are ya likin’ Osaka?” 

Kiyoomi pauses, thinking. Whenever he thinks about Osaka, he thinks about how he ended up there in the first place, still unsure. “It’s nice,” he finally says. “Different from Tokyo.” 

“I bet,” Atsumu nods., tucking his phone into his back pocket. “Been to Tokyo a few times to see Suna. ‘Saka’s a lot quieter, I think. Not as quiet as Hyogo, though.” 

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums. “What made you decide on Osaka?” 

This time, Atsumu is smiling fondly. “Not far from home, really. Less than an hour away. I knew it was gonna be weird bein’ apart from ‘Samu. But it was always nice, bein’ alone for once.” _Without me?_ Kiyoomi wants to ask, but he refrains. “Wha‘bout you?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, his heart stuttering in anticipation of the question he still doesn’t know the answer to. “What about me?’

“Why’re you in Osaka, Omi-kun?”

He licks his lips in preparation for the script he practiced in his head day and night, but the gods seemed to grace him this one instance -- maybe to help him get his thoughts together -- as Hinata and Bokuto come bounding down the street. 

“Tsum-tsum! Omi-san!” Hinata greets, pouncing on Atsumu’s back to say hello. Atsumu lurches forward, almost tripping straight into Kiyoomi, but stops short as Hinata hops off. “Should we get a seat?” 

Bokuto completely ignores Hinata’s question and turns into the izakaya, requesting a table large enough for the team. Barely a minute passes when the hostess shows them to their table, all while Kiyoomi hopes that their question is forgotten. He watches as Atsumu jumps ahead to walk in tow with Bokuto, pausing at the table being presented to them. 

A hand already gripping the packet of wipes he brought with him, Kiyoomi stills as Atsumu beats him to it. The resealable packet of wipes emerges from Atsumu’s jacket pocket as he pulls one out to wipe down the table. Atsumu’s eyes focus on the table as he carefully sanitizes as much of it as he can, while Hinata makes a sound of disbelief. Kiyoomi is sure he would join Hinata’s fascination, and maybe even Atsumu’s newly discovered cleaning habit, if he weren’t shocked still. 

“He does this every time we go out,” Bokuto says to Hinata in response, patiently waiting like he’s used to it. _Like he’s used to it_ . _“Every time we go out_ ,” Bokuto had said.

When Atsumu finishes, he tucks the resealable pack into his pocket and retrieves a bottle of sanitizer, dropping dollops into everyone’s hand before finally settling down into the seat and looking through the menu as if it were routine. 

Kiyoomi supposes it _is_ a routine, a habit he had picked up over the few months they had dated in the privacy of Kyoto and Nagoya, a habit he still maintains even now. He can’t help but feel warm and something akin to fondness as he looks at Atsumu casually browsing the menu. 

<<<

“I like you, Atsumu.”

They were sitting side by side at the train station, waiting for Kiyoomi’s train to take him back to Tokyo. Kiyoomi hadn’t thought much would come out of their initial conversation, but Kiyoomi was observant. He saw how much care Atsumu took to respecting Kiyoomi’s boundaries as soon as he made them known. Besides Motoya, no one really went out of their way to make Kiyoomi feel comfortable. Kiyoomi had always learned how to make others feel comfortable around him instead. 

It started immediately, the day after their first conversation. Kiyoomi was already doing stretches with Motoya when Atsumu strolled into the gymnasium for morning drills. From the corner of his eye, Kiyoomi watched with curiosity as Atsumu jumped from group to group, engaging in quick and casual conversations between stretches.

Before they started their drills, Atsumu bounced over to Kiyoomi and Motoya, immediately roping Motoya into some conversation about a manga they were bonding over the day before. Kiyoomi stood silently, wondering if he had imagined their entire conversation. Then Motoya ended their brief chat with a hard slap on Atsumu’s back before he headed to Kageyama and Hoshiumi. 

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu finally greeted, as if he were seeing the curly haired boy for the first time all day. “Want some sanitizer?” He procured a small bottle from his pocket and waved it at Kiyoomi, who stared in disbelief. It looked new, barely used, so he knew Atsumu had picked some up between last night and this morning.

Kiyoomi nodded numbly, and Atsumu dropped a dollop of sanitizer into Kiyoomi’s hand before doing the same to his own, sparking up a topic even Kiyoomi couldn’t remember at this point. 

Because it only went downhill from there. Atsumu showed up at the dining hall with his own pack of wipes. He wiped down his phone after exiting the locker rooms. He’d look like he was reaching for a high-five before gently pulling back and waving his hand at Kiyoomi instead. 

So it was easy to agree when Atsumu asked for his number at the end of their training camp. 

They met up once a month, oftentimes meeting in Nagoya or Kyoto. Always somewhere in the middle. 

Atsumu always greeted Kiyoomi with a wave before exchanging dollops of hand sanitizer. He always wore a mask around Kiyoomi, always held doors open with the sleeves of his shirt, always wiped down the table before Kiyoomi even had the chance. 

So it was easy to say as they sat side by side six months after they first met. 

“I - Omi-kun,” Atsumu muttered, and even beneath his mask, Kiyoomi could tell Atsumu was blushing. His eyes lifted to meet Kiyoomi’s own, eyes glassy and full of awe. “I like ya too, Omi-kun.” 

“Really,” Kiyoomi asked, but it sounded more like a statement. 

“Really,” Atsumu confirmed, a twinkle replacing the well of tears in his eyes. His hand reached out, but stopped, dropping his palm back onto his knee. For all the reaching out that Atsumu did in the past six months, Kiyoomi decided it was his turn. 

So he picked up his hand and gently turned Atsumu’s palm over, lacing his fingers into his own.

It had been so easy. 

<<<

“Ya wanna keep it a secret?” Atsumu screeched into the phone, clearly bewildered. He had received a text earlier that morning, requesting that “Can we keep this between us for now?” 

It was hard enough to tell what Kiyoomi was feeling when he was in the flesh; it was even worse through text when Kiyoomi appeared to have the emotional range of a newly painted wall. 

Kiyoomi sighed on the other line, while Atsumu held his breath. 

“I - “ A pause. “It’s not you. I promise. I just - I’ve never.” Another sigh, some rustling, and a mumble. 

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never been in a relationship before,” Kiyoomi whispered quietly. “I don’t know - I don’t know if I’ll be any good, and I just want to keep it between us for now. I want to enjoy it.” 

Atsumu released his breath, running a hand through his hair, the ends still damp from his post-practice shower. A wide grin spread across his cheeks. 

“I can teach ya, Omi-kun,” he beamed. “I’ll teach ya ev’rythin’.”

>>>

Kiyoomi was a few drinks in. He hadn’t gotten this drunk since the end of his third year of university, when Kiyoko had surprised him and Keiji with a bottle of sake to celebrate the end of finals. Even he hadn’t gone this hard when he graduated. 

“You ‘kay, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi blinks once, then twice, as he meets Atsumu’s golden-amber eyes. If he hadn’t been so dumb and drank so much, Kiyoomi could swear that Atsumu glanced down at his lips. Instinctively, Kiyoomi pouts. The action brings him back to four years ago, stolen kisses underneath looming trees, subtle grazes of fingers on his skin just beneath the hem of his shirt. 

“You.”

“Huh?” Atsumu tilts his head, a goofy grin on his lips. He’s drunk, too, Kiyoomi’s sure of it. 

“You heard me,” Kiyoomi mumbles, leaning an elbow onto the table and resting his cheek on top of his palm. Atsumu’s eyes flutter to the table, slowly reaching for a napkin to place between Kiyoomi’s elbow and the wood beneath it. When Atsumu’s eyes return to Kiyoomi’s, he stares back at the blonde fondly. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

The caucus laughter of their teammates seems to go silent, and it’s just him and Atsumu, the world around them a blurry haze. 

“It’s always been you, Atsu,” Kiyoomi smiles, and he knows the blush on Atsumu’s cheeks aren’t because of the alcohol. “I’m in Osaka because of you.”

“Omi.” Atsumu turns his head to hide his face in his own shoulder, but his eyes peek out when Kiyoomi’s free hand moves him. “No, yer not.” 

“Part of it is because of you.” Kiyoomi shrugs as if it’s not that difficult of a concept to comprehend, but Atsumu is staring at him with awe and wonder. “I didn’t wanna let you go, you know,” Kiyoomi slurs, his hand loosely tracing the shirt sleeve, fingertips brushing Atsumu’s. “It was dumb.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu chuckles. “We’re dumb.” 

>>>

“ _Omi_ ,” Atsumu grunts as the warmth is, quite literally, ripped from his body. He opens his eyes, narrowing in on Kiyoomi who is already dressed for the day and trying to make the bed. “We don’ have practice t’day, leave me alone.”

“No,” Kiyoomi responds plainly, tapping the back of Atsumu’s thigh gently. “Get out of bed.”

“ _No_ ,” comes the response. “Ya can’t make me.” Atsumu buries his head underneath the soft pillows, so close to falling back asleep when he feels a gentle touch on the back of his calf, then his hamstring. _A kiss_ . “ _Omi_ ,” he groans when he feels a kiss on his bare shoulder. “Yer killin’ me.”

“Good. Die,” Kiyoomi deadpans as he stands up. “But shower first.”

“Fuck you.”

“You already did.” When Atsumu lifts his head from the pillows, Kiyoomi is grinning -- a sight so rare and so beautiful, Atsumu wonders how he went four years without it, four years trying to find someone else. 

It had barely been a few weeks since they started dating again, this time without hiding it from their friends and family. And this time, Atsumu finds that Kiyoomi fits into his life not because Atsumu found ways to keep him there, but because Kiyoomi keeps finding ways to stay. He wasn’t as sociable as Atsumu, but he was clever and honest and certainly insatiable. If Atsumu wanted to go out, Kiyoomi would go with him, as long as Atsumu gave him what he wanted when they got home. 

His curls were long enough to tug and short enough to run his fingers through, until both were a tangle of limbs sprawled out on the couch while a game played in the background. He loved cheek kisses, but he loved those forehead kisses even more. 

And if Atsumu wanted to try a new recipe that Osamu sent him, Kiyoomi was blunt enough to tell him how awful it was (“ _Like you could do any better! You’d starve without me, rich boy_ ,” Atsumu would always argue back, both of them glaring at each other with soft smiles behind their eyes). 

Atsumu stares at Kiyoomi like he brought the sun back into his life. His hair is neatly parted, curls bouncing from his head as he stands there impatiently waiting for Atsumu to get out of bed so he can proceed his morning routine on their day off. Atsumu already knows Kiyoomi’s going to change the sheets and then get started on laundry, while Atsumu makes them breakfast. 

“Are you going to get out of bed, or am I going to have to toss you into the laundry, too?” Kiyoomi is pouting now. 

“I love ya, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi drops the sheets on the floor with a frown. He glances down at the sheets before flitting his eyes to meet Atsumu’s expectant ones. Kiyoomi leans forward, his hands on either side of Atsumu’s waist to cage him in. Atsumu raises his chin, hoping for a kiss that never comes, because Kiyoomi lifts his hand and flicks Atsumu on the forehead.

“You’re stupid.”

“Ow! Omi-kun!” he whines. “What’s that for? I just told ya I love ya!” 

“Because,” Kiyoomi huffs as he leans away from the bed and stands up straight, his hands on his hips. “You say stupid stuff like that and --” a sigh “-- it makes me want to kiss you, but I can’t because you haven’t brushed your teeth yet.”

“ _Omi_ \- _omi_ ,” Atsumu continues to whine, but he’s finally getting out of bed, wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi’s torso. “I’ll get ready for th’day, just for ya.” He places a quick kiss on Kiyoomi’s shoulder before releasing his boyfriend and walking into the bathroom. 

“Atsu,” Kiyoomi calls out. Atsumu pauses at the doorway, turning his head with a tilt. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/_poliwags)


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